The Story of Jack Napier
by Mister.Fantastic
Summary: I don't know if anybody would want to read this, but here it is: my interpretation of the Joker's origins from 'The Dark Knight'.


I used to have a name. Jack Napier. I had that name until I was sixteen, when I dropped the name, hoping to be forgotten, only to be known to the city as the Red Hood. My parents' names were Howard and Natalie Napier.

There are scars on either side of my mouth, a smile carved permanently on my face. You see, my father was a drinker. One night he came home a little _crazier_ than usual, so my mother got the kitchen knife to defend herself. He…he didn't like that. So, he takes the knife from her, with me watching, and walks toward me. "Why so serious?" He sticks the knife in my mouth, saying "Let's put a smile on that face … _why … so … serious_?"

After he was done, I lay on the floor, bleeding, and my father walks toward my mother. He uses the knife on her. Ten seconds later, she's on the floor, bleeding from four different places. She looked at me and gasped, and stopped moving. I was six. I went to the bathroom mirror after my father had passed out again, to look at the damage. The cuts were bad; I knew they wouldn't ever fully heal. But I noticed something, too. I noticed something in my eyes. Something different. Something had been awakened, and that _thing_ is now what I am known as the world over.

I ran away two days later. I only returned once, ten years after the day that my father carved a smile into my face. At the time, I had taken to wearing a mask, a red one, to hide the scars. I returned to my father's home to find it was the same hellhole it had been when I left. I walked into the house, armed with a pistol and a knife. I found him passed out in the La-Z-Boy that we bought when I was three. I walked over to him, and the smell hit me like a punch to the face. He obviously hadn't taken hygiene into account since I left. The smell of vomit, sweat, dirt and booze was so strong that I considered leaving then and there. But, I had come too far to quit now. I took out the knife, looked at my father again, put the tip of the blade on his neck, and slowly began pressing the blade into him. He had just started bleeding when he woke up.

He looked at me in horror, and then grabbed me by the neck. I retaliated by taking the knife and cutting the back of his hand. He let go, giving me enough time to pull out the pistol. I shot blindly, and heard him squeal in pain. I looked at him, and realized I shot him in the thigh. He lay on the floor, bleeding, and I knelt next to him and said, "What's the matter, Howie? Something wrong?"

"How do you know my name?" he asked me, still holding his bleeding thigh.

"I know more about you than you'd like to know," I said, and, as he had done to me all those years ago, I stuck the blade in his mouth. He looked terrified now, but didn't move. In a cruel impersonation of him, I said, "Why so serious?" I pushed the blade against one side of his mouth, not enough to do any real damage. "Let's put a smile on that face," I continued, "_Why so serious_?""

He looked horrified at the question and said, "Who are you?"

After a second, I took the mask off, showing my father my face. He saw the scars on either side of my mouth and he stammered, "You…y-y-you're supposed to be dead," not taking his eyes off my face.

"Nice to see you too, Dad," I said, and took the pistol. I replaced the knife in his mouth with the pistol. I looked at him one last time and said, "Why so serious?" I relished the terrified look on his face.

Afterwards, I forged a note from him, stating the he committed suicide. To this day, I don't regret that action.

After my father's death, I found refuge in the city's police force, ironically. I wore my mask, and was hired by the police chief to be a sort of private eye/double agent. At this point, I was known to the police force as the Red Hood. I was actually recruited at the same time as current police Chief James Gordon, although we never spoke or interacted with each other. I just saw him around the academy occasionally.

As the Red Hood, it was my job to infiltrate mobs and gain their trust, and occasionally destabilize the mobs. The turning point of my career as a law abiding citizen was a night I'll never forget, no matter how hard I try.

It was fourteen months after I had become the Red Hood. I was on my mission at the time, working my way through the most notorious organization in Gotham. I got a majority of the mob into an old building that was wired with explosives. I took one of the members with me, the one who had a body structure that was the most similar to mine. I led him outside, and convinced the others to stay in the building. I had the remote detonator, but before I blew up the building, I talked with the member. His name was Michael. I told him about my reason for wearing the hood, and told him that I'd no longer need it. I took it off and showed him my face. He looked horrified, but didn't turn away.

I almost felt bad for what I was about to do to him. I pulled the remote from my pocket, and activated it. The building exploded instantly, and collapsed in a fiery heap. I pulled out a gun and aimed it at Michael. He had just enough time to say to me, "You know, you're quite the joker, there" before I shot him in the chest. He fell to the ground and looked at me in despair. I looked into his eyes and said, "You're right, Michael. I _am_ quite the joker, aren't I?" He gasped something that I couldn't understand, and he didn't move again. I put the hood on over his head, and looked at the scene. A burning pile of rubble where a building had been moments before, and a man who was apparently the Red Hood lying dead from a shot to the chest. I had just faked my own death.

I took Michael's last words to heart: _You're quite the joker_. Those words stuck with me for years, and those words still haunt me to this day. For whatever reason, I stayed in the city. For those who are wondering why I stayed, I had no reason to leave. I never showed anybody my face when I was the Red Hood, so nobody would have ever seen my face. I was safe on the street. One day, when I was eighteen, I stumbled upon a worn purple suit, with a bright green vest to go with it. I don't know why, but I felt attached to the suit. Nobody was around it, so I took it for myself. After I put the suit on, I looked at myself in a mirror. Michael's words echoed in my ears again, _You're quite the Joker_. I looked down at myself and said quietly, "You're right, Michael. I _am_ quite the Joker, aren't I?"

I decided that I needed a new image, so the first thing I did was bleach my hair. I found a bottle of green hair dye and dyed the roots of my hair green, the color of the vest that I found with the suit. I found white makeup, and covered my face with the stuff. As a finishing touch, I covered the grotesque smile that was carved into my face with red lipstick, giving me an eternal and pronounced smile. I looked at my face in the mirror, and thought to myself _I look like a clown_.

Suddenly, a twisted grin appeared on my face.

"Not a clown…" I muttered to myself. "A Joker."


End file.
